blood history
by wild wolf free17
Summary: Hannibal King oneshots
1. tell me we're dead

**Title**: Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more

**Fandom**: _Blade: Trinity_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Richard Siken.

**Warnings**: AU

**Rating**: Rish

**Pairings**: canon

**Wordcount**: 465

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Danica sinks her fangs into his neck, Asher his right arm, and that fucker in love with the Pomeranian his left. They drain him nearly dry and leave him there, shaking on the floor.

He waits for the cavalry to save him. The Nightstalkers never come.

o0o

Last time this happened, he was too out of it to feel anything. Last time, he woke up different, changed, _owned_. A cockless bastard who only wanted to please his bitch of a lovermotherowner.

This time, he _knows_.

o0o

They lock Zoë in with him, the little girl he loves like a baby sister, the little girl he's tucked into bed, read stories to, played stalk-and-pounce with. He holds out as long as he can, for days, faced buried in his hands, trying to ignore her scent and sounds. She cries because she's hungry and thirsty and wants her mommy. She cries because she's smart enough to know that if they haven't been rescued yet, they won't ever be.

He counts the seconds, trying to drown out the hollowness in his stomach, the tantalizing scent of little girl wafting across the room.

He beat the hunger before, eventually, last time. He got himself cured. He escaped the bloodlust, the madness of starvation. He's stronger than Danica's pet, that poor dumb fuck he used to be. He's better than he was.

He is _so hungry_. And Zoë won't stop crying.

o0o

Danica visits every hour(he thinks, and what day is it? What year?), taunts him through the door, calls him _honey_ and _pet_ and _lover_, so sarcastically he's surprised it doesn't cut.

Zoë has finally quieted, slumped on the floor. She isn't dead; her heart still sings to him, whispering _eat me eat me eat me, don't you wanna drink me?_

He knows he has to feed to live. He's starving. Famished. Zoë is a banquet of steak and chocolate and mashed potatoes and Jack Daniels, and he could call her over to him, just say, _c'mere, sweetheart_, and she trusts him. Trusts the man he was, big brother King, who took care of her and swung her around and laughed and colored in those princess coloring books every time she made big eyes at him.

He holds out as long as he can.

o0o

Days and days, and Zoë's barely alive. Her blood is still pumping, though, and Danica saunters through the door, unlocks his cuffs, and leaves again, throwing a dagger-smirk over her shoulder.

He _knows_. He's not a mindless killing machine—he loves Zoë. He adores her.

He's so _hungry_ and she's _right there_.

o0o

Danica purrs and ruffles his hair, trails her claws down his neck. _Good boy_, he hears.

Zoë's not crying anymore. But on his knees, head bowed, blood in his mouth, full to the brim, he is.


	2. to feel the sun

**Title**: to feel the sun

**Fandom**: _Blade: Trinity_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for film

**Pairings**: past Danica/Hannibal

**Rating**: R

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 300

* * *

What he misses most is the strength, the speed, the stamina. He felt like a god when Danica's poison coursed through his system. He felt invincible, immortal—for all intents and purposes, he _was_. It was tempting, so tempting, to lose himself in the bloodlust, in the insatiable hunger, and forget he'd ever been human, ever had a conscience and hopes and fears. Most vampires did; it was how they slept at day.

And that's what he did, for the first four years. He was her toy, her loyal servant. Indebted to her for gifting him beyond life.

For the first four years he was the perfect bloodslut. But he missed the sun. Missed dreams that weren't filled with killing poor, normal bastards who got in the wrong place at the wrong time. Missed dreams that didn't have screams and pleading and his teeth ripping skin apart.

For the first four years, he loved Danica. For the fifth, he spent most of his time imagining how he'd kill her. Make her scream and beg and writhe, for mercy instead of in pleasure.

In the fifth year, he met Abigail Whistler. In the fifth year, he learned of a cure.

He misses the strength, the speed, and the stamina. He doesn't miss the servitude, the cruelty, the easy and delighted malice. He doesn't miss always wondering if this time, she'd actually kill him—whether deserved or not, no matter how small the mistake, the slight.

Danica was fucking insane. Is _still_ fucking insane. And he's not as strong as he was, not as quick, not as able to take punishment. But he has the sun on his side now, warmth and life.

He has hope now. Friends. Not a flighty goddess who demands perfection and sacrifices of blood.

He has sunlight.


End file.
